Don't Forget to Remember
by pistachio gelato
Summary: Sherlock forgets but John continues. - SH/JW


A Painfully Obvious Declaration: I do not own Sherlock Holmes.

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><p><strong>Don't Forget to Remember<strong>

Sherlock exhaled and watched his diaphragm dip, heard the traffic outside, and felt the course material of the chair underneath him. He focused on his breathing, ignoring the oddly warm scent around him that could only have belonged to something, or someone his mind hummed, that did not belong to him. Yet to have a smell on him that appeared out of nowhere without any known context made no sense; it was impossible.

No one lived with him. The scent didn't remind him of anyone he even remotely knew.

His eyes flitted over from his chest to the room and furrowed his brow at the signs all around. Two mugs, a blanket he didn't remember buying- had Mycroft gone through another one of his decorative fazes? Sherlock sighed; hopefully he wouldn't have touched too many of his own belongings. Especially not his socks.

Standing, he ran his hands over his shirt and frowned yet again. When had it become untucked? He didn't remember doing that.

That smell, _that smell_-

Sherlock shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair.

Suddenly there were hurried, heavy footsteps on the stairs; they were unfamiliar and Sherlock felt his eyebrows rise in wonderment. Obviously this person clearly needed his help if they were hurrying like that, kicking the door open and lunging into the room.

He had sandy blond hair and blue eyes that seemed light with determination and energy.

It only took a moment for the man's eyes to land on Sherlock and before Sherlock could so much as blink as that wild look was focused on him, he was tackled to the ground. Sherlock resisted the urge to groan at the hard wood beneath him or the weight of the man above.

"I'm sorry!" the man shouted into the side of Sherlock's neck. His breathing was labored, like he'd just sprinted a mile, but despite his unease, his lips softly pressed against the underside of Sherlock's jaw. He kissed the same spot a second time with his chapped lips once more before leaning back.

"I'll... I'll try. I want to try," he whispered as his breathing began to level out. He tenderly pushed back Sherlock's curled fringe and kissed his forehead.

Sherlock could only lie there in shock, staring up at the ceiling, until the man's face blocked his view. His eyebrows were furrowed and there were creases in his forehead now.

It was baffling - this man was holding and looking at him like they knew each other. Like they'd been collegues or lovers for years. But Sherlock, for what felt like the first time in his life, was blank. He couldn't remember seeing this man in his life, not even a fragment or scrap of memory. How did this man look at him like that. Like he trusted Sherlock; like he loved him.

The man just kept staring, staring, _staring_-

"Sherlock, say something," he urged as his hands came up from Sherlock's sides to cup his face.

He was still looking at him, and suddenly Sherlock wished he wasn't.

"Who are you?"

The mystery man blinked down at him before snorting and snaping, "Very funny, Sherlock. Yes, yes."

"No, really-"

"Stop it!" he snapped as he looked back down at Sherlock. "I'm sorry I was unsure, that I literally ran away, but I'm back now. Doesn't that _count_?"

There was a definite undertone of pleading in his voice, and his eyes were crinkled in guilt. Still, none of that made Sherlock more aware of the situation that he was in now, with a man pressed on top of him, pleading for something unsaid.

"I apologize for any inconveinience, but I think you have the wrong person," Sherlock said as he pushed against the man's chest to get him off.

He wouldn't budge and his body had stiffened, like he wasn't alive and rigamortis had set in.

"I think that's enough from both of you."

Finally the man looked away from Sherock's face to the door. Sherlock didn't need to look over to see it was Mycroft, yet when he finally did, he wondered what had happened to make him look so old and drawn. He hadn't looked like that sense Mummy had stopped allowing him dessert every night.

"I don't understand," the man said, still on top of Sherlock.

"How convenient," Sherlock snapped, and the man winced.

"Come on, John," Mycroft said.

"You know this man?" Sherlock said with amusement as this supposed 'John' finally got off of him.

There was that look on his brother's face again, like he actually had feelings - Sherlock frowned to match.

"I don't understand," John repeated again in a whisper as he got to Mycroft's side.

"Unfortunantlly, the only person who would has forgotten himself," he said as he reached out and placed an arm on the blond's shoulder comfortingly.

"This is not funny, Mycroft," Sherlock said with a scowl as he stood up and dusted himself off.

John turned to look at him again, but that determination was gone; his shoulders were slumped in, making him seem like a discarded pet. Sherlock thought it silly, but he looked more depressed like those suicide bodies Molly would sometimes let him examine.

"We'll return soon enough," Mycroft said as he directed the man to the door and lead him out.

Sherlock went to the window and watched them leave, noting the man's limp and how blatantly different he looked aside his brother. A broken soldier obviously, so that must be how he and Mycroft were connected. They must have bonded over biscuits and talk of Queen and country and morality.

The man looked up again at him with familiarity, like he'd looked up at that window hundreds of times before, and Sherlock resisted the urge to shy away.

It wasn't too hard to connect how Mycroft and him were aquainted, so why was he treating Sherlock on an even deeper level?

.

"Sherlock, this is John Watson."

Sherlock ignored how Mycroft did not add, 'John, this is my brother, Sherlock Holmes,' like was custom, and simply offered his hand to shake.

The man had a horrible, twisted grin on his face when he shook Sherlock's hand. His eyes remained fixed on Sherlock's left collarbone and wouldn't look into his eyes; no where near his face.

"John has offered to room with you here," Mycroft said as he looked around the flat absently, nose crinkling as his eyes swept over the kitchen.

"Interesting," Sherlock said dully as he took his hand back and crossed over to the couch, where he sat down with a huff and pulled his bathrobe around him tighter.

"Yes, it's a wonderful place," John said with a smile as he looked around, the edges of his eyes crinkling.

"You've lived here before," Sherlock stated.

"Yes, yes, I've lived here before. Enjoyed it quite a bit. Would love to... return," John said hesitantly as he went over to the chair and sat down with a huff. Again- that familiarity that was foreign and seemingly impossible.

"I also, uh, sorry for earlier," John said earnestly as he focused on the crossed pattern on the chair under his tapping fingers.

Sherlock's eyebrows narrowed; Mycroft cleared his throat pointedly.

"Yes, well, you should know I play the violin at all hours and sometimes don't talk or sleep for days."

"There are worse flatmate things that you do than that," John said with a chuckle.

"Like?" Sherlock snapped to say.

"Like there's a head in the fridge, you stash away narcotics like a squirrel preparing for winter and don't eat," John rattled off as he crossed his arms stubbornly over his chest. A sign that he was trying to cut himself off - how odd, when he said such personal things about Sherlock's life.

"And you're a PTSD soldier with a psychosomatic limp," Sherlock returned breezily. "Best with close-range tactics from that tackle, a doctor by your hands."

"What, can't pick anything else up?" John asked in challenge.

Sherlock opened his mouth, but then Mycroft said sternly, "John."

"Sorry," the man muttered dejectedly as he stood back up from the chair. He cleared his throat before saying, "So I'll move in then?"

"Where are your belongings?" Sherlock asked.

"I think I'll manage," John said with a soft smile before hobbling over to the stairs.

"Would you prefer the downstairs room? I would have to move, but it wouldn't be too much trouble," Sherlock said absently.

John stiffened and turned around and for the first time that day, looked Sherlock in the eye. He smiled, and Sherlock thought he actually looked pleased for a fleeting moment, but then he was walking up the stairs and to the empty bedroom.

"How polite of you, brother," Mycroft said as his umbrella began to twirl at his side.

Sherlock shrugged absently and asked, "So why is he here?"

"His name is John and you should learn it," Mycroft said as he went to the chair John had just vacated.

"Who is he?"

"You'll understand him soon enough."

Sherlock's brow furrowed at that. He already had deduced everything about the man himself, but there were things that did not add up. The largest was how he acted around Sherlock, and if Sherlock wasn't in need for a flatmate (who looked unassuming but also had great potential) Sherlock would turn him away. There was something off and stabbing to be found, and Sherlock could not realize what.

"You say that like I've already done it before," Sherlock said angrily. These two were hiding something from him. Sherlock usually didn't trust human emotion and feelings, but there was something about this situation he couldn't quite shake.

John looking at him like _that_-

"You'll see," Mycroft said as he stood. "In the meantime, give the good doctor a chance."

"I already have," Sherlock said with a soft snort.

Something flashed against Mycroft's face at that, but then he seemed to come back, and he gave a sigh.

"I mean more than hesitantly inviting him in and not force him into your experiments."

Mycroft gave him another once-over look that he'd done since they were boys before leaving Sherlock alone with his new flatmate.

.

Sherlock doesn't know what to think about this John Watson.

For the first week John tiptoed around Sherlock in an odd way. John wouldn't be hesitant to enter the kitchen when he was doing experiments at three in the morning, or when the violin was screeching like cats during intercourse, like people usually did after just meeting Sherlock. No, he wouldn't come around Sherlock when the lanky consulting detective had nothing to do but sit and think and observe everything around him. When John would enter and see Sherlock's eyes train on him, he would turn right back up the stairs with that infuriating limp of his.

The one case Sherlock had their first week John (badly) feigned indifference. Sherlock noticed that while he went through piles of pictures and newspaper clippings, or navigated the internet, John would read. Or at least read the same page over and over again as he never flipped the pages. So when another murder popped up with similar circumstances, Sherlock decided maybe having an assistant wouldn't be such a bad idea.

"Come along, John," Sherlock said the next morning when Lestrade texted.

The blond already had his coat over the chair he was sitting in, and again Sherlock stared at him in puzzlement. John gave a half shrug and another fake-but-heartfelt smile. Those smiles were always odd ones; Sherlock got them the most when he wouldn't drink the tea John kept making for him. It was stupid, for him to smile over inanimate objects.

When they got to the yard, Sherlock had never seen Donovan, Anderson and Lestrade stop dead in their activities like that.

"John, I thought-" Lestrade started, but John hurried forward and brought the man aside.

Sherlock frowned and wondered how they thought they were being descrete when they were whispering so loud and he could read lips anyway.

"Mycroft told me-"

"Yes, well, I've got to try."

"You are a brave soldier, indeed," Lestrade weakly joked.

John gave a half-chuckle before patting him on the back and coming back to Sherlock's side without any true explanation. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him, and then at the other three who were determinedly not looking at either him or John.

Sherlock decided it would have to wait another day, because the game was in progress and nothing, not even disjointed John Watson, could stop that.

.

He probably didn't realize it, but it was the little things that John did that made Sherlock wonder.

Like how he knew what brand of nicotine patches he needed, or even how he liked his coffee. Which was stupid because even Molly knew how he liked his coffee, but Sherlock never remembered telling him. He didn't tell John lots of things, but the man automatically knew without needing directions.

At first Sherlock thought John could just be smart like him, and that had made his toes wiggle in anticipation. But then there were times when it was painfully obvious John wasn't on the same level. Sure, maybe he was above the dismal average, as Sherlock was right about the doctor occupation, but things still flew right over him.

So the only rational conclusion of John knowing Sherlock so intimately was because they had known each other intimately. It would explain the affectionate kisses that Sherlock had first met John with.

It was odd to think of it like that, for a variety of reasons. Mainly because John was so different from Sherlock in almost every way. He didn't have vices or corroding addictions, didn't have social problems and was always an upstanding Samaritan. Secondly, Sherlock didn't do relationships. He didn't even do flatmates for longer than a week before John.

Sherlock didn't think he did friends until John.

It was almost infuriating, how easily the older man had stepped into his life (or more like tackled, he supposed). John should have felt some nerves about working with Sherlock that one case, but he had no nerves towards him, only at the guns pointed at them towards the end. And he didn't hesitate to shoot, to save Sherlock even at the inches difference his shot could have made. And that stupid, stupid smile John have given Sherlock when he'd seen him bundled in that stupid orange blanket.

Now Sherlock didn't ignore the cuppas that were made for him, and now John's smiles weren't so tortured.

They _must_ have known each other. So why couldn't Sherlock remember; how could he be in this constant denial? Was he, or his mind wrong? Did that even make sense? He could remember everything else meticulously, no matter if the cases or research was done a day or a year ago. There was nothing missing in his memory, no new memory-lapses. He had even gotten himself checked; there was nothing wrong with his brain (other than it's infuriating methods).

Yet it couldn't be denied any longer that there was something wrong with Sherlock.

The curly-haired man blinked from his perch on the couch, his eyes beginning to sting from staring at John unabated for so long. What were his feelings towards this man that somehow knew him better than his own brother?

"Sherlock," John sighed through the newspaper before folding it down, revealing a frowning (but still amused) look on his face.

"I don't understand," Sherlock said honestly.

"Understand what? Why I read the comics?" John asked as his tongue ran along his bottom lip.

There it was _again_-

"I don't understand you. Us. This," Sherlock dryly listed as he waved his hands between the space between them.

John's amusement died in a flash, and Sherlock heard the crinkle of the pages as his grip tightened.

"I can't help you there," he finally said as he lifted the newspaper to cover his face. It was trembling; Sherlock had thought that tremble had gone away months ago.

Without any real reason based on fact and reasoning, Sherlock stood and went over to his flatmate and enveloped his larger hands over his shaking ones. The paper almost ripped with cracks as John's alarmed face looked up to Sherlock's calm one.

"I don't..." Sherlock said as his fingers tightened around John's.

That smell, his _scent_-

Sherlock had never really kissed anyone before. There was this one time when he was eight and one of his cousin's friends had said she liked him before kissing him. Sherlock had just stood there, and the girl had run away; Mycroft had smiled and chuckled before making him tea. His Mummy had done the same, after cooing about grandchildren. Then there was this time in uni, when Sebastian had invited him along with his friends for drinks. Sherlock had been walking back and one of them had pushed him against a brick wall and shoved his tongue into his mouth. He tasted like stale beer and peanuts and Sherlock hadn't liked it.

There was a few times when Sherlock had kissed people on their cheeks (God knew he did it enough to his Mummy) but he had never kissed anyone lips-to-lips, so this was a first. Granted, it was more teeth clashing with lips being tangled between, but Sherlock would take it.

John was still for a moment before he closed his bright eyes and kissed him back, his hands letting go of the newspaper to intertwine with Sherlock's.

Sherlock wondered if it was supposed to feel this claustrophobic when kissing. Sherlock kept his eyes open, but John had squeezed his eyes shut.

"You remember," John groaned against Sherlock's bruised lips when they parted.

Sherleock was so busy trying to even his breathing that he almost missed it. When he played it over in his head, he stood with a start.

"I knew it! We were aquainted beforehand," Sherlock said as he ran his hands down his torso absently.

John gaped at him before he threw his hadns up in the air and snapped, "Of course! Of course this is just a case to solve for you. What better mystery to solve than one you forced yourself into!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at that; why was John angry at him when they'd just done was considered loving and he was accusing him of self-sabotage.

"I can't do this right now. I just... can't," John muttered dejectedly as his shoulders turned in on him. Sherlock was reminded of that first day that was now almost half a year ago. How broken and small John had looked compared to what brightness and will and hope he'd burst into the flat with.

"Tell me, John," Sherlock ordered cooly.

He gave a bitter laugh at that and Sherlock almost winced at the wetness that was pooling in his eyes. "That's the problem, isn't it Sherlock? The one person who can remember has forgotten."

"I know something is wrong with me, you don't have to keep repeating it!" Sherlock shouted angrily.

John's eyes widened, and the tears seemed to retreat for a moment. Then he was leaning over his knees with his hands over his face, and Sherlock wanted to rip them away. He wanted John to look at him, to make him understand. But he was being stupid again, so then Sherlock would be, too.

"Tell me," Sherlock ordered as he strode forward and pushed John back against the chair, pushing against the left shoulder he knew he was shot in.

John remained silent and refused to make eye contact.

Growling, Sherlock lifted a leg and pressed his knee into John's crotch; the doctor's back arched as his eyes closed.

"I need to know," Sherlock said as he gave another push and John gave another gasp.

"Stop it, Sherlock-"

"Why can't you tell me what happened? You and Mycroft both," Sherlock said as he dipped his face down to the crook of John's neck before biting.

"D-Don't bring up your brother right n-now," John stuttered as Sherlock replaced his knee with a hand. He could feel the heat underneath the jeans, feel the slight scrape of the belt-buckle against his knuckles.

"Tell me, John," Sherlock stated loudly against the hollow of his neck.

John seemed to find his strength suddenly as he pushed Sherlock off of him, causing the lanky man to tumble down on the floor. The blond stood with a huff, short hair in every direction, an angry bite mark on his neck and a painfully obvious erection, before bustling out of the room. His limp had gone away after slowly, but Sherlock hadn't seen him move that fast since he'd bust into his apartment.

Yet while before John had been running to Sherlock, this time he was running away.

.

"So, you've finally decided to consult your older brother, hm?"

Sherlock scowled.

The two Holmes were at the small cafe just outside the apartment John and Sherlock shared in rent, but not in relations anymore. It seemed after that night John was determined to figure his schedule around Sherlock, and Sherlock refused to take time to see him. Let him be a sulking child. Sherlock was the one who could fast.

"I'm sure you've already figured out this is your fault," Mycroft continued. "Not that it took much effort."

"I forgot about John," Sherlock finally spoke.

"Did you really forget?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother.

"Tell me, who is the band playing this song right now?" the elder Holmes asked before sipping at his coffee (which had an outrageous amount of sugar and cream in it).

"Why would I care? Useless information," Sherlock readily answered.

"Yes, you do have that tendency to force yourself to forget about things that don't matter, don't you?" Mycroft asked in a tone somewhere between disappointment and annoyance.

Sherlock snorted before snapping, "If John and I had at least a fraction of the relationship we have now, I highly doubt I would simply throw something as complex and important as that."

"What if you erased him not because of unneccessity, but neccessity?" Mycroft asked loftily.

"Why would it be imperitive that I forget him? Forget about us?"

Mycroft tipped his dainty cup back to finish off the drink before leveling Sherlock with that older-brother-knows-best look. Finally he spoke; "Odd, how despite all your self-degrading habits, you have a strong sense of self-preservation."

"John wouldn't -didn't- hurt me," Sherlock said confidently. Yes, John killed people, but that was for Sherlock. The man wouldn't save him if he'd before tried to hurt him.

Mycroft gave a shrug before he left his younger brother with the bill and nothing Sherlock hadn't known already.

.

Sherlock sat in the dark of his bedroom, his head tilted to see the picture of Edgar Allen Poe. He had always been fascinated with his poems for human emotion he himself didn't quite all understand. He had been staring at it for some time now, after noticing it was tilted just the slightest bit.

For all the messes he had around the flat, Sherlock's room was clean and neat and perfect. So for a picture to be tilted, even just by that small amount, something was wrong.

He got up with a huff and went over to the picture. There was nothing poking out of the edges, no clear residue or sign of something pressing against the picture. Grabbing the frame, Sherlock pulled if off to see if there was something behind it.

There was, and Sherlock blinked at the words: _John said no_, that were written in his own handwriting.

Well, that was interesting.

Putting the portrait back and alligning it, Sherlock studied the face for only a moment more before barreling up to John's room. He entered even without knocking, but John was simply reading with the covers pulled up around him.

"Sherlock- Christ!" John exclaimed as he dropped his book and hurried to pull the sheets higher around him. Sherlock knew he only wore a pair of boxers when he slept (becuase what good flatmate doesn't watch their roomate sleep every now and then?), but there were more important things than John's modesty.

"What did I ask that you said no to?" Sherlock said as he stepped into the room and closed the door. John had spouted something about rejection when he'd first arrived, how had Sherlock overlooked that?

John's eyes flitted from the door to Sherlock's expectant expression. He dry swallowed a few times and tried to talk, but each time he opened his mouth he would shut it. Sherlock moved from the door to John's side.

"Please," Sherlock pleaded, the word and tone feeling foreign and uncomfortable.

John looked at him once more before looking away. Finally, after a big gulp of air, he said, "You said you wanted... _more_ and asked if I loved you. I ran away."

"You don't love me," Sherlock echoed blandly and almost gasped at the seemingly physical pain that manifested in his chest. He clawed at his shirt blindly and tried to remember how to breathe.

"You- You kissed me. Before you asked me. Very awkward but very heartfelt. Just like you," John said as he lifted a hand from underneath the covers and grabbed Sherlock's.

"Like last week," Sherlock said as his fingers tightened around John's as well.

"Yes, just like last Thursday," John said with a smile that made it to his eyes.

"So, deciding the pain was worse than the emotions, I made myself forget about you."

"And I thought your break-up with Irene was bad," John said as his other hand lifted to stroke Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock closed his eyes and unconciously leaned into John's touch. So this was what it felt like to love someone; how fascinating.

"I ran away becuase I was scared. I didn't give you an answer, but by the time I came back, you had erased me from existence," John said softly as he took his hands away from Sherlock.

"Will you forgive me?" John asked as his hands bunched in his lap.

Sherlock watched him, and wondered how he had managed to forget such a man, such a face as John's. He looked ordinary to many, but when Sherlock saw was fascinating. He should have been bored with John seconds after they'd sat in the same room, but here he was, asking if John loved him for apparently the second time.

"I feel I am the one who is obliged to ask for that," Sherlock said as he moved closer to John.

"You big idiot," John said as he grabbed Sherlock around his neck and brought him down for a real kiss.

When they pulled away, Sherlock saw John was smiling and he felt his own lips spread into a grin. John wordlessly moved over in his bed so Sherlock could climb in. When he did, John leaned over and turned off the lamp before returning to Sherlock.

"Tell me about us," Sherlock said as his hands found John's in the darkness.

"You'll remember it all, what's the point?"

"I erased everything about you John. I must begin again."

The blond chuckled softly before saying, "Then how did you remember my rejection?"

"I wrote a note to myself. Regardless, you know what I can force my body to do, John. As sentimental as it sounds, love doesn't actually conquer all."

"Yes, well, you liked me again, didn't you? Your heart isn't entirely useless. It'll overcome it eventually," John said confidently.

"You really believe that hypothesis?" Sherlock asked, daring to hope.

"Yes, and go to sleep. I'm tired and I have a six hour shift tomorrow."

"Don't go," Sherlock said as he twisted his arms around John and pulled him closer. Sherock shivered when John's warm breath tickled against his collarbone as he laughed.

"I'm not leaving yet, Sherlock."

"Don't leave ever," he ordered.

"Who knew you were such a romantic sociopath," John said through his smile. "A stupid one, of course."

"Of course?"

"Who just _erases_ someone?"

"Someone who was afraid," Sherlock whispered.

John was silent before his breath hiked and he pulled Sherlock in for another kiss. It was like the one before, sweet and soft, and Sherlock did feel stupid when he smiled again.

.

"You offered me your phone."

John looked up from putting jam on his toast to Sherlock standing in the kitchen doorframe without a stitch of clothing on.

"The first time we met, you offered me your phone," Sherlock repeated as he walked to stand next to John, eyes wide and smiling wide.

"Yes, I did, and now I'm going to offer you my bathrobe before you catch a cold."

"I remembered John," Sherlock said proudly as he took the clothing without a fight.

"Yes, yes, very good Sherly. If only you would remember to wear clothing more often. Now, have some toast."

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><p>AN: Because I'm a sucker for happy endings. Feedback?


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